Soupe á l’onion pas typique (A different onion soup)

Imagine a bistro in Paris—the late night meals in cramped, lively rooms that even now are conjured up in sepia tones—and French onion soup seems to play as iconic a role as the nicotine-stained mirrors and clinking wine glasses.

Fittingly, Julia Child, that great lover of Paris and its food, is said to have eaten French onion soup at her last meal. And the proprietors of French restaurants—eager to appeal to memory and imagination alike—wisely place Soupe á l'onion gratineé on the menu.

It was surely not coincidental that my first restaurant meal after moving to Paris began with a bowl of French Onion Soup. But whether it was an overload of expectations, or just an overdose of salt in the kitchen, the supposedly famous version served at Aux Pieds des Cochons was less than the sum of its parts.

And so it was elsewhere—indifferent bread, cheese more notable for its generosity than taste, broth that was dark and salty rather than meaty and savoury and onions which would have benefited from a further 30 minutes on a low, slow heat. I began to wonder whether it was simply the melted cheese, not so different from an open-faced toasted sandwich, which accounted for its appeal. Or perhaps it was the bowls, ovenproof white china with small lions-cum-handles on each side.

I thought of making it at home, where I could ensure the quality of the ingredients and be more judicious with the cheese, but never got further than looking at some recipes. The chief barrier was the beef stock, available here either in a cube or after a six-hour ordeal of boiling and skimming beef bones.

But a few Saturday nights ago I arrived home well after dark, my park-walking, cafe-sitting and shoe-browsing having consumed far more time than expected. I had planned to use up leftover bread by making a panade, a savoury bread pudding of sorts layered with slow-cooked onions, grated Gruyere and some chicken stock. But the baking time alone was over 60 minutes, and I wanted to be sitting down with a glass of red wine before the hour was out. A quick search revealed a soupier, unbaked panade, with slow-cooked onions simmered with stock, ladled over garlic toast and finished with cheese.

Homemade chicken stock added depth without overwhelming the onions, which were unctuously soft and sweet. The raw garlic on the toast was sharp and bright, and by the second bowl I managed to distribute the cheese so that it formed small, creamy globules rather than long, pizza-like strands.

Unlike at Aux Pieds des Cochons, there’s no one in my kitchen to rustle up onion soup at any hour of day or night. But in any case, what French chef would concede that a dish which is so typiquement francais could possibly be improved upon? Perhaps, though, they'll lend me some of those bowls.

A Different Onion Soup

Adapted from Skye Gyngell, A Year in My Kitchen
Serves 2, can easily be doubled
Total time: 50 minutes-1 hour; Active time: 25 minutes

Olive oil
3 medium onions
2 sprigs thyme
2 bay leaves
3-4 cups chicken stock, not from a cube
1 clove garlic
4 slices day-old country bread
Fresh-grated Gruyere or Emmenthal, anywhere from a few tablespoons to a heaping handful depending on taste

Film a large, heavy skillet with olive oil and warm on a low heat. Slice the onions in half, then cut into very thin, long strips. Toss to cover with oil, salt and pepper generously and allow to cook gently. Stir every few minutes, adding a tablespoon of water if there is sticking. Continue until the onions are silky-soft and a warm, golden brown, between 30 and 40 minutes. When the onions are nearly finished, heat up the stock, along with the thyme and bay leaf, in a saucepan. Spoon in the cooked onions and simmer, allowing about 10 minutes for the flavours to merge. Adjust seasoning. Toast the bread on both sides, then rub with a cut garlic cube.

Put the bread at the bottom of two deep soup bowls, tearing into large croutons if desired. Pour over the onion stock and sprinkle with cheese.

Potage Champignon-Orge (Mushroom-Barley Soup)

Unlike many other immigrants to America, my Eastern European grandparents and great-grandparents had little nostalgia for the motherland. America was, for them, truly a place where the streets were paved with gold, where their Jewish faith was not an impediment to success and where hard work held forth the promise of prosperity for themselves and their families.

As observant Jews (who therefore didn't combine milk and meat, or eat any pork products), many of the most typical dishes of their native countries never appeared on their tables. Nor do I recall any specific family recipes which made the boat journeys from Kiev and eastern Poland. The food we ate was generic Ashkenazic fare, adapted for American appetites: chicken soup with matzo balls, noodle pudding (kugel), pot roasts and brisket, and cakes bought from a kosher bakery on New York's Lower East Side which adapted such Austro-Hungarian classics as dobosch torte to be suitable for consumption after meat meals. We maintained some lingering affection for mile-high cold cut sandwiches on rye, adorned with half-sweet, half-sour pickles. But the most overt culinary symbols of our peasant roots--borscht, stuffed innards such as kishke (in effect a kosher version of haggis) and the heavy Sabbath stew, cholent--never made it to the second, much less third, generations.

Yet in much the same way that some of the thoroughly Americanized descendants of these immigrants are now exploring their linguistic heritage, Yiddish, I have been making cautious inroads into the repertory of dishes which my family likely ate some hundred years ago. I have not been particularly adventurous or ambitious: the list to date includes such easy-to-like ingredients as schmaltz (great for frying potatoes), and recipes for latkes, rugelach, sour-cream coffee cake and borscht. And, if I'm perfectly honest, these forays have done little to redress the Mediterranean bias of my daily cooking. But as the evenings draw in ever earlier, and I try to resist turning on the heat, the rib-lining soups once favoured during cold Russian winters exercise a certain appeal.

I've made mushroom-barley soup twice in as many weeks, though the repetition was largely due to me burning the broth irreparably on my first try. Gross incompetence aside, it is as forgiving as it is filling. For extra depth, use meat broth, or throw in a few bones or offcuts from your butcher while simmering. (In this case, you might want to chill the soup for a day, and skim off the fat before serving.) You could also use porcini stock cubes or vegetable broth, as I did. And while I poured in some beer while the soup simmered, white wine, vermouth or sherry would all highlight the sweet, earthy vegetable flavours. Finally, either hulled or unhulled barley can be used; in the case of the latter, you may want to par-cook it separately to avoid turning the vegetables into mush while it softens.

Mushroom-Barley Soup

Active time: 30 minutes; Total time: approximately 1 hour 15 minutes, if using fast-cooking barley

Serves 2 as a hearty dinner with bread and cheese

olive oil

butter

2 small onions OR 1 small onion + 1 leek

1 carrot

1 stalk celery

just over 1 pound white and/or cremini (baby bella) mushrooms

2 tbsp mixed dried mushrooms

2 cloves garlic

1-2 sprigs fresh rosemary

1/3 bottle lager or another light-bodied beer

1/2 cup hulled barley

meat bones or offcuts (optional)

Place the dried mushrooms in a heat-proof bowl and cover with about 2 cups of boiling water. In a large, heavy-bottomed pot capable of holding all the raw mushrooms, melt a nub of butter and add a light film of oil. Coarsely chop the onions, carrot and celery and add, sauteeing on a medium-low heat until fully softened. Salt and pepper generously. While these cook, clean and chop the mushrooms relatively finely. (You can use the trimmed stems if not too woody.) Add to the pot and raise the heat, cooking until the mushrooms give up all their water and lose half their volume. Chop garlic and rosemary and add. Remove the dried mushrooms from their liquid, chop and add, cooking for a further 2-3 minutes. Pour in beer and mushroom soaking liquid (leaving off the bottom inch to avoid grit) and bring to a boil. Add meat, if using. After the liquid reduces slightly, add barley and enough broth to cover generously. Reduce heat, cover and cook until the barley is al dente. Check periodically, adding extra broth if required. Season to taste and serve.

Leaving out the optional meat, I hope this qualifies for No Croutons Required, the monthly soup-blogging event. Check it out here after 20 October.

Encore du Potage et Encore de l'Ail (More Soup and More Garlic)

My Parisian kitchen is entirely typical in its diminutive proportions, with the curious addition of a full-size, American-style fridge-freezer. Given that family houses in Europe don't necessarily have one of these, I find its inclusion in my little bachelorette pad puzzling. But while I struggle to fill the fridge--leading to a perennial overpurchasing of vegetables and a vague distress that I am failing at domesticity--I am making good use of the freezer. At present, it contains the requisite bag of peas and a container of ice cream, along with portions of 3 different kinds of soup and a fresh batch of chicken stock. This cryogenic version of the Reine du Potage test kitchen encompasses one winter hold-over (a small serving of chestnut soup), an experimental carrot and dill and a basic minestrone, intended to be enhanced with dollops of homemade pesto. Paris has been blessed with a lovely spring so far, but experience has made me cautious; I'm guessing that gazpacho won't be the only soup consumed in my apartment in the coming months.

The stock is a relatively recent addition. Although I can't imagine that all French households make their own, supermarkets, butchers and even gourmet shops here don't really sell any quality alternatives. So on a rainy May weekend, I brought the big pot down from its home on the top shelf, cranked up my sorry excuse for an oven and tossed in the wings. A few hours later, browned chicken, carrot, onion and some herbs had coalesced into a limpid, golden broth.

Most of the stock was duly packaged, labeled and frozen. But I saved a bit for a spring soup highlighting the evanescent green garlic, also known as wild garlic or ramsoms. My regular market stall had a few flowering bunches, tucked away in a little pail behind the cabbages and cauliflowers. I had read enough rhapsodic prose about the wonders of spring garlic leaves to be both intrigued and a bit dubious. Was this just a trendy favourite of seasonal acolytes, or was it really something special?

The writers and chefs had exaggerated only slightly. Cooked up with leeks, potato and a knob of good butter, the garlic leaves added grassy richness--and perhaps a hint of sweetness--to an otherwise very simple soup. The pale green colour of the final product could have served as a paint swatch for one of those fancy, faux-antique decorating specialists, while the attached blossoms, though too bitter to be eaten, made my supper pretty enough for a photo shoot.

As for the chicken stock, I'd like to think it added something too. Because while I'm looking forward to using it in dishes like asparagus risotto and fresh pea and broad bean soup, another batch will be doing battle for space with more ice cream.

Green Garlic Soup

adapted from Mark Hix in The Independent

Serves 2

Active time: 15 minutes; Total time: 30-40 minutes

2 small leeks

heaping tbsp of good butter

handful green (wild) garlic leaves)

500g potatoes (try to find a tasty variety that isn't too waxy in texture)

enough vegetable or chicken stock to cover

1 tbsp creme fraiche for each bowl

While the butter is melting in a thick-bottomed pan, clean and chop the leeks. Add, season and cook on a gentle heat, stirring periodically, for 5-7 minutes. Peel and chop potatoes and strip garlic leaves from any thick stalks. Place the potatoes in the pan, cover them with stock and simmer for approximately 10 minutes. Add the garlic leaves and continue to cook until the potatoes are completely soft. Puree with a stick blender, cool slightly and serve with a dollop of creme fraiche.

La Reine du Potage

Although my diet of late would be appropriate for a toothless crone (or a prison inmate not allowed sharp objects), my soup obsession shows no sign of abating. Today I made two batches destined for the freezer: a orange-infused tomato broth full of chickpeas and carmelized fennel, and a roasted pumpkin soup laced with cinnamon and smoked paprika. And I've lined up the ingredients for a mid-week fix: a recently rediscovered classic of coconutty sweet potato lifted out of saccharine sweetness by a lashing of curry paste and lime.

For a solo supper, a brimming cafe au lait bowl full of hearty soup, accompanied by a good quantity of bread and cheese--and, most nights, a glass or two of wine, feels like the right choice more often than not. It can be eaten while reading, incurs limited mess, but is sufficiently homespun to feel simultaneously comforted and virtuous. It helps--and I would hesitate to say to make a similar claim about any other area of my cooking--that I make damn good soup.

From time to time--usually after I've eaten yet another mediocre bowl from a cafe or deli--I cultivate a little fantasy of opening a small-scale soup business of my own. With little more than a giant soup pot or two and my handy £10 stick blender, I imagine, I could supply a few local venues and begin to make a name for myself as "La Reine du Potage"--the Queen of Soup.

For now, though, the business plan hasn't progressed further than napkin scribblings of the weekly choices I would offer my customers: carrot and fennel, mushroom and barley, chickpea and chorizo, borscht, and, in warmer seasons, chilled courgette and basil soup. But the combination of chilly weather, my barely functional oven, and the unfortunate distance of a partner who believes that even la bonne potage does not a meal make, likely means that for the next few months, soup will continue to be on the menu. I'll let you know how I get on.

The Sicilian-style chickpea soup could still use a bit of tweaking, perhaps a bit of fennel seed and a touch of chili flakes. But the pumpkin, which I simplified from a recipe in the newest Moro cookbook, is ready for the masses. The original calls for topping the soup with browned butter, toasted pine nuts and seasoned yogurt. I skipped the former this time (though it's worth browning butter at some point, if only for the unctuous smell), and seasoned my yogurt with dried coriander and paprika instead of cinnamon. The only pumpkin currently available in my market is a huge, ridged variety called a muscade; kabocha would probably be a good substitute. Though I'm partial to the original seasoning, I think it could adapt to a Tex-Mex combination of chipotle, lime, sour cream and pumpkin seeds, or a classic French trio of fresh thyme, creme fraiche and toasted walnuts.

Roast pumpkin soup with cinnamon
Adapted from Moro East
2-3 large servings
Total time: 1 ¾ hours Active time: 30 minutes

1 pound peeled and seeded pumpkin
Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 or 2 cloves garlic
1 medium potato
Vegetable or chicken stock to cover
Pinch smoked paprika
Cinnamon stick
Greek yogurt
Pinch coriander
2 tbsp pine nuts

Preheat oven to 220®C (425 F). Toss pumpkin with olive oil, salt and pepper and pour into a roasting tin large enough to fit the vegetable in a single layer. Roast for approximately 1 hour, or until the pumpkin is very soft and caramelised in spots.

After the pumpkin has been in the oven for 40 minutes or so, heat a thin film of oil in a saucepan on medium heat. Chop onion and cook gently until it is soft and golden, about 15 minutes. Chop garlic and potato and add, along with paprika, cinnamon, salt and pepper. Cook for a few minutes, stirring to ensure the garlic doesn’t burn. Add pumpkin and stock and bring to a gentle simmer. Cook until the potato is fully soft, about 20 minutes.

While the soup is simmering, lightly toast pine nuts in a dry pan or warm oven. In a small bowl, mix a few tablespoons of yogurt with coriander, paprika and salt to taste. When vegetables are fully cooked, allow the soup to cool slightly, then puree, ideally with an immersion blender. Season and serve topped with pine nuts and yogurt.

Harira

At the moment in France, attention seems to be focused on the Sarkozy divorce and the probability of further transport strikes. But I assume that in due course the perennial triptych of identity, immigration and integration will once again reclaim its familiar place in debate and discourse.As a newcomer here, and one largely unable to access the local media, this is a discussion that I can only follow in the most general terms. But insofar as I understand it, it is one not wholly dissimilar to that which has also been taking place over the last number of years across the Channel.

I thought about these questions last Sunday when I visited my local market. It was loud as usual, the odd bit of Arabic intermingling with North African-accented French from the outdoor vegetable vendors. Late middle-aged matrons, trailed by their shopping trolleys, proceeded down the centre aisle at a business-like pace. Older men in fez-like caps stood on the corners, smoking and chatting. The bobos­ (bourgeouis bohemians) who had already finished their shopping were gathering outside the Baron Rouge for a glass of wine.

It’s tempting to draw certain conclusions from this superficially harmonious intermingling, to use the example of the Algerian pastry shop next door to the cheesemonger as evidence that a multicultural France is alive and well, at least in my little corner of Paris. And even if the French, far more secure in their indigenous culinary traditions than their English counterparts, have been slower to fully embrace the food of their immigrant—and former colonial—populations, it nonetheless seemed right—at least to me—that I had a lunch that day of quiche, followed by a dinner of harira, the hearty Moroccan soup. Idealistic? Oversimplistic? No doubt. But perhaps for the French, the road to real integration may start with the stomach.

Traditionally eaten to break the daily fast during Ramadan, harira hovers between soup and stew. The inclusion of lamb or chicken, while not required in what is already a thick and protein-rich potage, would act as a sign of status. Although the basic formula remains the same, harira recipes vary in the type of legumes used (dried chickpeas would be typical), the quantity of vegetables and the finishing starch—any short pasta, rice, or even bulgur. Flat bread may be the most obvious accompaniment, but I chose to go the boulangerie for a baguette.

The method and seasoning for this version are adapted from Moro: The Cookbook and Casa Moro. I did, however, opt to brown the meat first in order to avoid any greasiness. If you choose to make the recipe without the meat, either use well-flavoured stock and/or begin by sautéing the vegetables in some olive oil or butter.

Overall time: 2 hours
Active time: 30-40 minutes
Special equipment: a large pot
Serves 4

350-400 grams neck of lamb, cut in pieces, or scrags of another cheap stewing cut
2 litres cold water
3 branches celery
2 carrots
1 large onion
3 cloves garlic
a good pinch of saffron
2 small cinnamon sticks
1/2 heaping teaspoon turmeric
1 scant teaspoon ginger
½ heaping teaspoon allspice
1 small bunch each coriander and parsley
half a dozen grates of nutmeg
1 cup small green lentils
1 can chickpeas, drained
½ can whole or crushed tomatoes, drained
cornstarch or flour to thicken (optional)
2 handfuls vermicelli or cappellini
To serve: remaining herbs, lemon and, if some heat is desired, harissa

Brown the lamb well over a medium-high heat. When this is done, drain off any excess fat and cover the meat with the cold water. Turn the heat well down. While the pot returns to the boil and the stock develops—this will take at least 20 minutes—chop the vegetables and herbs. Allow the liquid to boil for a few minutes, skimming any scum, then add all the vegetables, 2/3^rds of the herbs and the spices. Season well with salt and pepper and turn the heat back down to a simmer. Allow this mixture to cook for 30 minutes or so, then add the legumes and tomato. (If you use whole canned tomatoes, crush them in your hands while adding to the pot.) Cook for a further half-hour. During this time, you can thicken the mixture either with a few teaspoons of cornstarch or the same quantity of flour made into a paste with paste. If using flour, stir very thoroughly to avoid lumps. Just before you want to eat, bring the mixture back to a boil and add the noodles. Once the noodles are cooked through, spoon into bowls. Herbs, lemon and harissa can all be added at the table.

Soupe de Poisson

In my kitchen, at least, not everything is better when it's homemade. Even with tasty olives and anchovies, I can't produce tapenade like that sold by Britain's largest grocery chain. The same goes for jam; there's a reason why Bonne Maman does such good business. And then there are the items which I take pleasure in making--bread for instance--that may vie with easily available options (at least outside France), but don't really reflect a mastery of the craft.

I do think, however, that given time, several large pots and a good marketing plan, people might just pay money for my soup.

I'm still working on expanding my repertoire, but this Provencal-inspired fish soup, a riff on a Nigel Slater recipe, has proven to be a bit of a sleeper hit. In contrast to many (good quality) commercial French offerings, where the fish is pureed and the finished product topped with Gruyere toasts, the flavours here seem brighter, cleaner, fishy in the right sort of way. And it's as flexible as the famously belaboured bouillabaisse is not. For instance, while fish stock adds depth to the final product, I've made it successfully without. I also tend to limit myself to one firm, flavourful white fish (usually mullet or bream), simply for practicality. Fresh fennel goes in when I have it, some fennel seeds when I don't. The thyme sprigs could, if necessary, be swapped for a pinch of herb de provence. And anything dry, acidic and white--sauvignon blanc, muscat, a vermentino or verdejo--will work both in the pot and in a glass alongside.

This soup is plenty good without any filips, though I'm prone to adding a dollop of decidedly not homemade rouille (a rich, mildly spicy, red pepper mayo) or aioli to my bowl. I let you know if I can improve upon--or even match--this.

Soupe de Poisson
Enough for 2; can double easily
Total time: 45 minutes
Active time: 20 minutes

olive oil, enough to film the pot
1 medium onion
1/2 small bulb fennel or 1 tsp fennel seeds
1 or 2 cloves of garlic
pinch of red pepper flakes (optional)
1 can crushed plum tomatoes
1 strip of orange peel
a few sprigs of thyme
pinch of saffron
1 glass white wine (or vermouth)
1 cup homemade or other good fish stock (optional, substitute a mixture of tomato liquid and water)
500 grams filleted white fish (off the skin is prettier, but the fish will break down faster)
chopped parsley (optional)
rouille or aioli (optional)

Serve with a baguette and chilled white wine

Warm the oil in a heavy-bottomed pot, chop the onions and fennel and add, along with a pinch of salt and some pepper, stirring occasionally. Chop the garlic and strip the thyme from its branches. Once the vegetables have fully softened--between 10 and 15 minutes, add the garlic, red pepper flakes, fennel seeds and thyme and toss. Add the tinned tomatoes, holding back about half of the juice. While this cooks down on a low medium heat, infuse the saffron in a few tablespoons of hot water. Warm the fish stock. In 15 minutes, or when the tomato mixture is looked reduced and amalgamated, add the wine. Raise the heat for several minutes to cook off the alcohol, then add the fish stock or watered-down tomato liquid, along with a bit of water if you'd like a looser texture. Let this cook for a few minutes while you chop the fish into bite-size pieces. If you are ready to eat, add the fish and let it cook through on a gentle heat, no more than 5 minutes. Check the seasoning, top with parsley and serve, adding either rouille or aioli to the baguette or the bowl.

Good woman soup

My new bed is clad in lovely, old, familiar linens, and I am tucked up, drinking chichi Mariage Freres tea out of my favourite mug. Boxes have been unpacked, a larder stocked, and soup made.

The most pleasurable aspect of the last few days has undoubtedly been food shopping. My new neighbourhood, on the border of the 11th and 12th arrondisments, not only has a lively open-air market six days a week, but also boasts several dozen small shops and permanent stalls. And H

here, at least, I’m learning quickly: to always take my jute shopping bag when heading out on errands (plastic sacs are invariably tiny and weak); how to order certain foods (though I’m currently limited to weights of 100 grams, a half-kilo or a kilo); and which of the wine shops in the immediate vicinity has a more interesting stock.

I am unquestionably spoiled when it comes to vegetables, cheese, bread and wine. My kitchen, however, has been less easy to love. On the whole, my apartment is far nicer than I had remembered: bright, airy, with piles of charm and enough genuine virtues—an enormous, spanking-new bed, masses of closets, proper wood floors—to outweigh such startling decorating decisions as a shiny black and gold coffee table and a red velvet couch. In the case of the kitchen, however, my recent reencounter merely confirmed earlier frustrations: storage limited to high, open shelves, a new microwave but a very old (convection) oven, a cramped layout, and a plethora of ugly, cheap kitchenware. The narrow L-shape did make it a perfect space for one. But this physical reminder that I would be cooking only for myself merely prompted me to focus more intently on the kitchen’s flaws.

Nonetheless, with the odious and unnecessary banished, Le Creusets hung conveniently on hooks and shelves loaded with food staples, it was difficult to be entirely negative. The light was shining in through the window, and there was a place on the ledge that could hold herb plants. There was even room to line up all of my cookbooks, something which I had been unable to do for a long time. The meals I would cook here might lack in companionship, but it no longer seemed inconceivable that this space, my first solo kitchen, could be a happy one.

I celebrated this newfound resolve—and the successful completion of my move—by making soup. Although there was no wine (the corkscrew not being due to arrive until the weekend), I had bought cheese and bread along with that morning’s vegetables. The soup was simple and satisfying, if a bit too salty, a homespun blend of leeks, potatoes, carrot, and parsley.

I vaguely recalled that these types of improvised recipes were sometimes known in French as potage bonne femme. Although I later learned that the correct translation for this was housewife’s soup, that evening, good woman soup seemed like just the right thing to have on the menu.

I later found this recipe, adopting different proportions, using butter in place of olive oil and adding a bit of cream, in Lindsey Bareham's Celebration of Soup.

Potage Bonne Femme

Serves 4
1 1/2 oz butter
2 large leeks, finely sliced
3 carrots, diced
1 lb potatoes, peeled, diced and rinsed
2 pts water (I used Marigold stock)
2 fl oz single cream
1 tbsp parsley

Melt the butter and gently saute the leeks and carrots. When thoroughly coated with butter, add the potatoes, the water and a generous pinch of salt. Simmer gently for 30 minutes. Puree and pass through a fine sieve. Adjust the seasoning, serve with a swirl of cream and a flourish of chopped parsley or chervil.

Les Petit Pois eats petit pois

Forgive me for that moment of twee-ness. But it just so happens that one of the best things--boyfriend's words, not mine*--to grace our table in recent weeks counted as its main ingredient none other than a humble bag of frozen petit pois. In the interests of full disclosure (this is where my parents should stop reading), it also contained a bit of serrano ham. Called simply sopa de guisantes (pea soup with jamon and mint), this toothful, bright green potage features in the ever-reliable Moro cookbook. Carrots and bay leaves (they use fresh; I had only dry) fortify the one-note sweetness of the peas, while the ham yields an earthy saltiness and a bit of textural contrast. And the mint? Who am I to question the wisdom of this classic culinary pairing?

I've made very few alterations to the original recipe. For cost reasons, I used about 1/2 the quantity of jamon. Perhaps--and here I flout culinary wisdom with some trepidation--those who abstain from pork products could substitute a very little bit (1/2 teaspoon?) of good quality, sweet Spanish paprika. Either way, there could be no possible objection to a glass of fino, so cold that a film of condensation has formed on the outside, and a basket of chewy, just slightly sour bread.

Sopa de guisantes (Pea soup with jamon and mint)

4 tbsp olive oil
1/2 medium onion, finely chopped (I used a bit more)
1 medium carrot, finely chopped
2 bay leaves, preferably fresh
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
1/4 pound jamon serrano, finely chopped
1 small bunch fresh mint, finely chopped
just over 1 pound podded peas, frozen
enough stock to cover**
Special equipment: this is much easier with an immersion (stick) blender

In a large saucepan, warm olive oil over a medium heat. Add onion, cooking until it turns golden, then add carrot and bay leaves. Cook for a further 5 minutes, stirring a bit, then add garlic, 2/3 of the ham and 1/2 the mint. Stir, then add the peas and cover with stock. Simmer for a good five minutes, or until the peas are soft. Take off heat and puree until smooth. Season with salt and pepper, then garnish with remaining mint and jamon.


* Said boyfriend is English and moderately laconic. He does not say such things with great frequency.
** An English brand called Marigold makes a peerless vegetarian stock, powdered and quite low in sodium. In its absence, I'd suggest the vacuum-packed chicken or vegetarian stock sold at Whole Foods.